Dante Moretti POV:

The sharp sound of a glass shattering broke the spell.

Someone in the back had dropped a tumbler of whiskey.

I looked at Sofia.

I really looked at her.

For years, I had seen a fragile bird that needed protection. I had seen the daughter of a hero.

Now, I saw a viper.

I saw the woman who had twisted my honor into a noose.

Who had turned me against my own wife.

Who had made me sacrifice my own flesh and blood.

My son was dead because of her.

Elena was gone because of her.

"Dante," Sofia whimpered, reaching for me with trembling hands. "Baby, please. It's a setup. The Russians..."

I didn't speak.

I picked up the medical report. The paper that detailed the death of a child that wasn't mine.

I crumbled it into a tight ball in my fist.

Then I moved.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A primal need to destroy the threat standing before me.

I backhanded her.

My knuckles connected with her cheekbone with a sickening crunch.

The force of the blow lifted her clean off her feet.

She flew backward, crashing violently into the wedding cake.

White frosting and red blood splattered across the pristine tablecloth.

She hit the floor hard.

The room gasped.

Sofia screamed, clutching her face.

"My baby!" she wailed. "You hurt the baby!"

"That is not my baby!" I bellowed.

My voice tore through my throat, raw and ruined.

"That is a rat's bastard!"

I walked around the table.

I loomed over her like the executioner I was.

She looked up at me, terror in her eyes. For the first time, she was truly afraid.

"I gave you everything," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I gave you my protection. I gave you my home. I gave you my wife's dignity."

I kicked the table leg next to her head.

She flinched violently.

"And you laughed at me. You called me a dog."

"Dante, please..."

"You made me kill my son," I said. The words tasted like ash and bile. "You made me choose a traitor over my wife."

I looked at my men.

"Take her," I ordered.

Two soldiers stepped forward immediately. They grabbed Sofia by her arms and hauled her up.

She screamed and kicked, her heels scraping uselessly against the floor.

"Dante! I love you! It was Sergei! He forced me!"

"Take her to the basement," I said, my eyes never leaving hers. "Keep her alive. I want the Russian to hear her scream before I find him."

They dragged her out.

Her screams faded down the hallway, swallowed by the heavy oak doors.

I stood alone in the center of the wreckage.

The cake was destroyed. The party was over.

I looked down at the divorce papers still sitting on the table.

Elena Falcone.

She had signed it.

She had told me the truth.

And she had left.

I grabbed the papers and ran.

I ran out of the ballroom, past the stunned guests, past the security.

I burst out into the cool night air.

"Get the car!" I shouted at my driver. "The airport! Now!"

"Boss?"

"New York!" I screamed. "We're going to New York!"

I had to find her.

I had to tell her I knew.

I had to beg.

I would crawl over broken glass from Chicago to Long Island if I had to.

But as I climbed into the car, a text message pinged on my phone.

It was from Rocco Falcone.

Elena's brother.

It was a picture.

A picture of the Villa gates burning.

And a message:

Cross the state line, Moretti, and I will send you back in pieces. She is gone.

I dropped the phone.

I leaned my head back against the seat and let out a scream that tore the night apart.

I was the King of Chicago.

But I was a pauper.

Because I had just realized that the only thing worth ruling was the heart of the woman I had destroyed.

Dante Moretti POV

The shriek that tore from Sofia's throat wasn't human.

It was the wail of a cornered animal realizing the trap had finally snapped shut.

I loomed over her.

My hand throbbed from the impact of the backhand, a dull ache that felt like the only real thing in a room dizzy with lies.

She lay amidst the ruins of the white cake, frosting smeared across her face like grotesque war paint, red blood trickling from her nose to mix with the sugar.

"Dante," she choked out, scrambling backward on her elbows. Her heels scraped frantically against the polished floor.

"Dante, listen to me. The recording... it's edited. Elena did this. She hates us."

I took a slow step forward.

The crowd of Chicago's elite recoiled, splitting apart to give me a wide berth. No one dared to breathe. No one dared to intervene.

They were witnessing an execution.

"I heard your voice." My tone was terrifyingly calm. It didn't belong to a man. It belonged to the grave. "I heard you laugh about my honor. I heard you plan my death."

"Sergei made me say it!" She was sobbing now, hysterically, clutching her stomach. "He threatened the baby! Our baby!"

"That is not my baby!" I roared.

The boom of my voice shattered the last of her defenses.

I reached down, twisting my fingers into a handful of her hair.

The extensions tore, but I didn't let go. I hauled her up to her knees.

She clawed at my wrist, her nails digging in, but I felt nothing. I was numb.

"I sacrificed my wife for you," I whispered into her ear, loud enough for the microphone to catch every syllable. "I killed my own son for you."

I looked at the guests.

I saw the disgust in their eyes. Not for me. For her.

The illusion was broken. The fragile, protected ward was gone. Revealed as the viper she always was.

"Remove her," I ordered.

Two of my most loyal soldiers, Enzo and Marco, stepped forward. They didn't look at her with pity. They looked at her like she was filth that needed to be taken to the curb.

Enzo grabbed her left arm. Marco grabbed her right.

"No! No, please! I'm pregnant!" Sofia shrieked, her legs kicking uselessly in the air as they dragged her backward. "Dante! I love you!"

"Take her to the basement," I said, calmly wiping the blood from my knuckles onto a silk napkin. "Keep her alive. I want her to be awake when I find the Russian."

Her screams echoed down the long hallway, bouncing off the marble walls until the heavy oak doors slammed shut, severing the sound.

Silence rushed back into the ballroom.

It was heavy. Suffocating.

I looked down at my shoes. There was a smear of icing on the leather.

I felt sick.

Not because of what I had done to her.

But because of what she had done to me.

And what I had done to Elena.

"Clear the room," I said to the Consigliere.

"Dante," he started, his face pale. "The press..."

"Kill the story," I said, turning my back on the room. "Bribe them. Threaten them. I don't care. Just get everyone out."

I walked toward the exit.

I didn't run. Kings do not run.

But inside, I was sprinting.

I needed to get to New York.

I needed to fall on my knees.

I needed to beg.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out, hoping it was her. Hoping she had turned the car around.

It was a picture.

Flames licked the wrought iron gates of my Villa.

And a text from Rocco Falcone.

Cross the state line, Moretti, and I will send you back in pieces. She is gone.

The phone slipped from my fingers.

It hit the floor with a sickening crack.

I stared at the spiderweb fracture on the screen.

It matched the one in my chest.